


see a little light

by 1000_directions



Series: winterhawk punks in love [3]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Music, Alternate Universe - Punk, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Deaf Clint Barton, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Recovery, Rimming, Tongue Piercings, Winterhawk Reverse Big Bang
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 12:51:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20097511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions
Summary: “I’m thinking about shaving the ‘hawk,” Clint says a few blocks later. “Or letting it grow out. I don’t know. Would you still want to fuck me if I had boring hair?”“You could have boring hair,” Bucky reassures him, giving Clint’s hand another squeeze. He knows that this is about more than hair. “Or you could have no hair or...I don’t know, clown hair. And I’ll still want to fuck you. Always.”“Okay,” Clint says thoughtfully. “Okay, babe, you convinced me. I’m gonna get the clown hair.”“Fuck off,” Bucky says with a grin, and Clint’s answering laughter is airy and delighted and easy.Winterhawk punks (still) in love.





	see a little light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).
  * Inspired by [[ART] See A Little Light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098753) by [1000_directions](https://archiveofourown.org/users/1000_directions/pseuds/1000_directions), [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/pseuds/Kangofu_CB). 

> oh my GOSH, i can't believe this actually happened??? and it certainly would not have happened at all, not even a little bit, without the endless aid and encouragement and support of my best best CB <3 thank you for your endless patience and help and excitement. thank you for listening to me whine. thank you for drawing such beautiful art! we did it!!!!
> 
> this story is a sequel to [ever fallen in love with someone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18366893). this story probably still makes sense if you haven't read that one, but i think it probably adds some nice context and nuance to see where these boys started out and how far they've come.
> 
> "confessions" square for winterhawk bingo

Bucky and Clint both have really compelling arguments for why Steve absolutely should not attempt to give himself a face tattoo. Bucky’s argument is that it’s needlessly dangerous and risky, and Clint’s argument is that it’s probably going to look extremely fucking stupid.

When they’re sitting with Steve in the emergency department waiting area four days later to have a doctor take a look at the truly disgusting staph infection that has taken over half his face, it seems pretty clear that they’ve both won.

Clint’s helping Steve fill out the paperwork because his eye’s so swollen shut that he can’t see the page, and Bucky can’t manage a clipboard too well on his best day. Plus, he’s still fucking furious at Steve’s reckless ass for bringing this upon himself.

“Don’t tell them my address!” Steve is hissing at Clint, but Clint ignores him and keeps filling out the form.

“It wants to know the nature of your injury,” Clint says. “What should I put? ‘Made an unwise permanent style choice’?”

“How about ‘stuck an infected needle in my face like a dumbass,’” Bucky suggests idly, and Clint snickers.

“Don’t write that!” Steve protests, swatting at Clint’s arm. “Bucky, he’s fucking writing it.”

“Don’t blame Clint for your shitty decisions,” Bucky says, frowning.

“Both of you quit it,” Clint says. Without looking up from the form, he places his right hand on Bucky’s upper thigh, rubbing his thumb in small circles, and Bucky smiles. “Okay, I need your health insurance.”

“I don’t have _health insurance_,” Steve says, spitting out the words like they’re poison. “Medical care is a goddamn human right. I refuse to participate in a system that decides who lives and who dies based on how much money they make.”

“Shut the fuck up, Steve,” Bucky says tiredly, reaching for his wallet. It’s two in the morning, and he doesn’t have the energy for this right now. “You work for Stark Tech. You have the same insurance I do. Clint, I keep a copy of his card with me.”

“I do _not_ have health insurance,” Steve says, dumbfounded. Bucky locates the card in his wallet and hands it over to Clint, who starts copying down the information. “I have health insurance?”

“Looks like the hospital is going to be compensated for the medical care they provide you,” Clint says apologetically. “You’ll have to single-handedly take down the HMOs another day, man.”

“I fucking hate you guys,” Steve says, slumping down in his seat. “My face hurts, and you’re both being dicks.”

It’s not worth arguing with Steve about how this entire situation is one-hundred percent his own stubborn fault.

They _do_ end up arguing with him about it, of course, but it’s definitely not worth it.

*

They don’t make it back to the apartment until a little after six. All that just for some antibiotics and some bloodwork. Still, better than the VA.

“Tell Tony I’m not coming in today,” Bucky mumbles, sleepwalking after Clint towards their room. “Don’t wake me up for any reason. If your face falls off, call 911.”

“Do you have any idea how expensive an ambulance ride would be?” Steve asks, outraged. Bucky ignores him and closes the bedroom door.

“Is it just me, or is he actually getting worse?” Clint asks, toeing off his shoes and shrugging off his hoodie at the same time.

“Dunno,” Bucky says, blinking. He watches Clint strip down to his boxers, momentarily distracted by just how good his body looks, even now, even when they’re both fucking exhausted. The sun is rising, and a bit of golden light sneaks in past the blanket they stapled over the window, and Clint just looks like a goddamn angel, tattooed and pierced and disheveled and _his_.

“C’mere,” Clint murmurs, walking over to Bucky. “I’ve got you, sleepy baby.”

“Okay,” Bucky says softly, and he lets himself be undressed. Clint pulls off his t-shirt, and Bucky places his hand on Clint’s shoulder for balance as he steps out of his jeans. “Am I a sleepy baby?”

“You’re my sleepy baby,” Clint says with a crooked smile. He turns his head and plants a quick kiss on the purple bullseye target tattooed to Bucky’s inner wrist, and Bucky feels his blood humming inside his arteries. “Let’s go to bed, beautiful.”

Bucky’s never going to be over it. He’s _never_ going to be over the idea that Clint likes him so much, the idea that Clint _loves_ him and wants to be with him and thinks he’s beautiful exactly the way he is. It’s so much more than he ever could have expected, and he’s greedy for it, hoarding Clint’s love like he’s a goddamn dragon.

But right now, he’s too fucking tired to protest. So he returns Clint’s smile and lets himself be led to the bed. And he settles down on his side and feels Clint slip in behind him, their legs tangling together under the sheets. He gets an awkward elbow in his ribs as Clint takes out the new hearing aids he’s still getting used to wearing, and then there’s a soft, lingering kiss to the back of his neck.

“Love you,” Clint whispers.

“Love you, too,” Bucky replies quietly. He knows Clint probably can’t hear him, but he finds his hand in the dark and squeezes tight, and Clint squeezes back, and Bucky’s pretty sure he manages to get the message across.

*

Bucky wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing. He flings an arm towards the stacked milk crates that serve as their bedside table, trying to make the noise stop. He accidentally ruffles Clint, who is still sleeping in beautiful, blissful ignorance. Clint wakes up long enough to mewl plaintively and nuzzle into Bucky’s neck, and then he’s asleep again.

“Yeah?” Bucky mutters into his phone when he finally grabs it.

“Oh good,” Nat says. “You were sleeping, not dead.”

“What time is it?” Bucky asks through a yawn.

“It’s almost noon,” Nat says, sounding amused. “So did they save Rogers’ face or what?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, closing his eyes and settling back into Clint’s sleepy embrace. “They had to cut the whole thing off. Tony says he’ll make him a robot face, but I think he should just rock the natural look.”

“So, Lucky,” Nat says after a moment, and Bucky’s grateful for the subject change. He wouldn’t have brought up robot prostheses if he wasn’t so fucking tired; everyone knows Tony’s insistence that he could build him a new arm is a very prickly topic for Bucky.

“Thanks for watching him for us,” Bucky says. “Hope he wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Nat says. “Just need to know if you’re coming to get him before I leave for work or if I should leave the window unlatched for Clint.”

Clint begins to stir, stretching and whining, and Bucky rolls to his other side and watches him wake up. When Clint’s eyes finally blink open and he sees Bucky looking at him, he smiles sleepily.

“Hi,” Clint mumbles, and Bucky’s heart could explode from how much love rushes into it all at once.

“Sleepyface is finally waking up,” Bucky tells Nat. “I’m gonna make coffee and push him into the shower, and we’ll be there in a little bit.”

“Who was that?” Clint asks with a yawn once Bucky’s hung up.

“Nat,” Bucky says. “We need to go get Lucky.” He adds their hand gestures for both names, and Clint smiles.

“Coffee, then doggy,” Clint says, fumbling his aids back into his ears. “Are we alone here? Do we have time to take advantage of an empty apartment?”

“Nope,” Bucky says, trying to keep a straight face at the obscene gesture Clint adds. “We’re getting Lucky, not...getting lucky. Sorry, sweetheart.”

Clint knows enough ASL to get by, but he’s more comfortable with English. Bucky can mostly understand Clint’s signs, but he’s not so great at speaking ASL with one hand. So they have their own modified language, a physical shorthand for the names of their friends and the things the two of them need to communicate in the morning or at night or in the shower, whenever Clint’s aids aren’t in. _Walk Lucky. Make coffee. Fuck me harder._

Bucky shoves Clint in the general direction of the shower, heading into the kitchen to make coffee. He can hear Clint singing away over the sound of the coffeepot gently gurgling, and he smiles to himself as he prepares their mugs.

The first few months they were together, they spent too much time trying to figure out how to cheat the Metro system, squeezing through the turnstile two at a time, Bucky clinging to Clint piggyback style, Clint just stepping clean over the gates with his devastatingly long legs. But now, Bucky works in the mail room at Tony’s company, and he gets monthly unlimited Metro cards. And it’s such a small thing, but it gives Bucky a weird thrill to swipe Clint through. To feel like he’s _providing_ something, even something as small as a train ride.

Nat lives in the apartment above the bar she works at most nights, when she’s not working as an adjunct Russian lit professor at the New School or staging guerrilla dance recitals as part of her underground dance troupe. The neighborhood is nice, and it should be outside of Nat’s budget, but Bucky’s learned that she tends to find a way.

Bucky hits the buzzer, then looks speculatively at the small second-floor window.

“Could you have really squeezed in through that if she left it open for you?” he asks doubtfully.

“Maybe,” Clint says, narrowing his eyes and scanning the building. “Depends on how much weight that awning could hold. Why? You wanna see me try?”

“No,” Bucky says emphatically, wrapping his arm around Clint’s shoulders and kissing the side of his dumb head. “I’ve had my fill of emergency rooms for the week, thanks, and you actually _don’t_ have health insurance.”

“Good thing I’m really careful and I’ve never been seriously injured in my whole life,” Clint says with a wry smile as Nat finally buzzes them up.

The second they get through the door, Lucky’s barking and running in circles, jumping up with his paws on their thighs like he _knows_ he’s not supposed to, not that Clint ever really reprimands him for it. It takes Clint about six seconds to get down on the floor so Lucky can climb all over him and lick his face, and Bucky and Nat pointedly step around the two of them.

“Were you good for Aunt Nat, doggo?” Clint coos as Lucky slurps at him. “Were you the best-behaved Lucky-pup?”

“He was fine,” Nat says with an inscrutable smile. “Slept like a big baby between me and Maria.”

“Is Maria here?” Clint asks suddenly, head jerking up, eyes huge and darting all over the place. Clint is terrified of Nat’s girlfriend, and Bucky mostly understands that. Maria is pretty terrifying.

“She’s at work,” Nat says with a smirk. “But I’ll tell her you asked about her.”

“Please don’t,” Clint says quickly. “You don’t even need to tell her I was here.”

“Tell her thanks for putting up with the unexpected houseguest,” Bucky says, nudging Clint’s hip with the toe of his boot. Clint immediately flips onto his side and headbutts Bucky’s shin, baring his teeth like he’s going to bite his ankle. Bucky rolls his eyes, but he smiles anyway. He loves that little weirdo.

“You guys are the worst,” Nat says disgustedly. Lucky extricates himself from the lovefest and trots over to Nat, delicately licking her fingers. “Not you, buddy. You’re the best.”

Clint shrugs, then he does some kind of maneuver that starts with him flat on his back and ends with him standing on his hands. He takes a few steps, tottering wildly, before just barely scraping out a landing back on his feet. He grins and bows as Bucky and Nat dutifully clap for him. Clint is weirdly flexible and acrobatic, and Bucky doesn’t know all the details, but it’s something to do with the psychobilly circus he was involved in right after his Other Than Honorable Conditions discharge and right before he was briefly incarcerated. Clint doesn’t talk about his past too much, and Bucky doesn’t ask, but he does appreciate having a bendy boyfriend.

“I like the new aids,” Nat says, nodding at the purple BTEs Clint’s been wearing for the last week. “Quite a statement. Tony couldn’t make them any more discreet?”

Tony had, in fact, offered to make them much more discreet. Clint only needs the one on the right anyway, because there’s no helping the left ear, and he’d offered Clint a single unit so small it was completely undetectable. Clint refused, in typical Clint fashion. He wanted something visible, something obvious. _I’m not trying to hide who I am_, he’d argued. _And I want it to be extremely fucking apparent whether or not I can hear._ The left one doesn’t even work, but Clint refused to wear just one, in case someone mistook him for _some Wall Street asshole with some bullshit hands-free Stark phone, no offense_. 

“I like purple,” is all Clint says to Nat.

They get Lucky on his leash and decide to walk the eighteen blocks home. It’s a nice day, and Bucky’s hand easily slips into Clint’s, wrist to wrist, tattoos pressed together as they fall into step beside one another.

“You didn’t give Nat your whole speech about the aids and identity,” Bucky says. He’s heard it so many times that he can practically recite the section about _I’m a queer, disabled vet, and I’m not letting Tony fucking Stark cover that up just because it makes him uncomfortable_.

“Nope,” Clint agrees. He tilts his head to the left, resting it on top of Bucky’s for a few steps. Bucky squeezes his hand, and Clint sighs. “It’s just a lot of work, sometimes.”

“I know.”

He does. He _knows_ how serious it is to Clint, how much it matters to him that he is a force for good, living his most righteous, audacious life. It’s a lot to be _on_ all the time.

“I’m thinking about shaving the ‘hawk,” Clint says a few blocks later. “Or letting it grow out. I don’t know. Would you still want to fuck me if I had boring hair?”

“You could have boring hair,” Bucky reassures him, giving Clint’s hand another squeeze. He knows that this is about more than hair. “Or you could have no hair or...I don’t know, clown hair. And I’ll still want to fuck you. Always.”

“Okay,” Clint says thoughtfully. “Okay, babe, you convinced me. I’m gonna get the clown hair.”

“Fuck off,” Bucky says with a grin, and Clint’s answering laughter is airy and delighted and easy. It’s spring in the city, and Bucky has never been happier.

*

Clint’s got a security gig that night for some kind of interactive pop-art installation that involves a lot of naked girls with very particular rules about how they are willing to be touched by strangers, and Clint’s happy to help with the enforcement, and Tony’s been in Singapore all week for some kind of conference. So Bucky takes pity on Steve and makes them grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches to eat in front of the TV.

Steve is uncharacteristically quiet for once in his life, and they make it through three episodes of _Tuca & Bertie_ on Bucky’s sister’s Netflix account before Steve lets out a deep sigh and turns to sit sideways on the couch. Bucky pauses the show and angles himself towards Steve, stealing the blanket draped across both their laps and wrapping it around himself.

“What’s going on, pal?” Bucky asks softly.

“You’re doing good, right?” Steve asks hesitantly. “You’re working, and you’ve got Clint, and...he’s good to you, right? You’re happy?”

“You know he’s good to me,” Bucky says carefully. “Is Tony...not being good to you?”

“Shit, nothing like that,” Steve says, shaking his head. “I mean, he’s a pretentious fuckhead and I wanna strangle him a dozen times a day, but he’s great. He’s perfect.” He sighs again, picking at a hole in his jeans with his blunt fingernails. “You really don’t like him at all, do you?”

“I like him more than I used to,” Bucky says honestly. “He’s not someone I’d ever want to just...hang out with, I guess. Like, we wouldn’t be friends if we didn’t have you in common. But he’s a good match for you. I think you’re better off with someone who keeps you on your toes a bit.”

“He loves me a lot,” Steve says to his knees. “Like, I don’t think he wants other people to see it so much, but he can be very gentle and very loving. And kind of...nurturing. He really wants to take care of me, and I’m not always sure if I can let him.”

“I see it,” Bucky says, and he puts his hand on top of Steve’s, quieting him before he makes the hole any bigger. “You’re a loveable guy, you big dumb idiot. I see how he tries to spoil you, and I know he only keeps trying to do nice things for me and Clint because he cares about you and wants to take care of your friends, too.”

“He asked me to marry him,” Steve whispers.

“Holy shit,” Bucky manages.

“Like a month ago,” Steve confesses glumly.

“Did you say yes?” Bucky asks. A _month_. Steve’s been keeping this news to himself for a _month_. Bucky is going to give him so much shit for this later. 

“I haven’t answered him,” Steve says, tensing his jaw like he’s daring Bucky to say anything.

“Why not?” Bucky runs his thumb over the rings on Steve’s fingers and the few flakes of polish still clinging to his chipped nails. He traces the colored bands in the rainbow flag tattooed to the back of his hand. He’s known Steve his whole life, and they’re both a lot different from how they started out, but he loves Steve like he’s never going to love anyone else, not Clint, not _anyone_, not ever. “What do you want, Steve?”

“Part of me wants to say yes,” Steve says. “Like, I love him? I feel like I can be myself around him, and I feel like he challenges me to be better, but he’s really supportive and doesn’t try to change me.”

“But?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says. “This is going to sound dumb.” Bucky doesn’t say anything; knowing Steve, there is an _extremely_ good chance that it’s going to sound _supremely_ dumb. “It all feels a little too...expected.”

“What’s that mean?”

“I don’t know,” Steve says, twisting his lips. “Isn’t it just so heteronormative and obvious? Marriage?”

“You’re right,” Bucky says with a grin. “That does sound dumb.”

“Fuck off,” Steve says with an embarrassed smile. “I’m trying to live my life in a purposeful way, you shithead.”

“I know, Steve. But you’re allowed to be happy…. _Oh_.” Bucky has a sudden realization as the pieces slot into place. “_This_ is why you’ve been such a nightmare to live with lately.”

“I’ve been a _nightmare_?” Steve asks indignantly. Bucky doesn’t say anything, keeps quiet and lets him work it out for himself. “Okay, maybe I’ve been a little….”

“Dramatic and insufferable?” Bucky suggests.

“On edge,” Steve finishes with narrowed eyes.

“Do what makes you happy, dumbass,” Bucky says. He can’t imagine why anyone would want to spend the rest of their life with Tony, but if that’s what Steve wants, he supports it. “I’m fine. Clint’s fine. Go get married to Tony Stark and live in some huge fucking tower with all your robot manservants if that’s what you want.”

“That is _not_ what I want,” Steve says darkly.

“Good luck convincing him to live in some off-the-grid yurt, I’m just saying,” Bucky says, and Steve rolls his eyes. “But seriously, I’m fine. I’m great. I just want you to do what makes you happy, and I think you already know what you want to do and you just need someone to tell you it’s okay. So...it’s okay. You have my blessing or whatever. Actually, I’m pretty furious that Tony didn’t ask for my blessing in advance.”

“I’m a strong independent man, and I don’t need anyone else’s permission to be given away,” Steve says, then immediately bursts into tears.

*

“This neighborhood was better before they fucking gentrified it,” Steve mutters as they load the last few boxes into the back of the truck Tony rented for them. “Seriously, how many goddamn coffee shops do you need on one block? I miss the bodega.”

“You never went to that bodega a single time,” Bucky says. “That coffee shop is great. Me and Clint like the scones.”

“You do realize I own that coffee shop,” Tony says to Steve with a frown.

“Why the fuck do you own a coffee shop?” Steve asks.

“Because the coffee Barton makes tastes like jet fuel, and sometimes a man needs a decent Americano when he wakes up after spending the night at his fiance’s apartment,” Tony says defensively.

“You literally gentrified my neighborhood,” Steve says, slack-jawed. “_You_, personally!”

“There are lots of new small businesses to support in the neighborhood,” Clint interjects. “I thought you would’ve enjoyed having some alternatives to the corporate juggernauts.”

“Fuck you all,” Steve says, stomping halfway down the block in a sulk. Bucky trails after him. Steve is sitting on the curb, hunched over and defensive, and he glances up briefly when Bucky comes over.

“Can I sit?” Bucky asks.

“Free country,” Steve mutters.

“Sure,” Bucky agrees, sitting beside Steve on the curb and nudging him with his hip. “But someone told me once that a society can only truly be free with the enthusiastic consent of its participants.”

Steve grunts and doesn’t say anything. His nerves seemed to calm down a little once he finally agreed to marry Tony, but the process of him actually moving into the tower has him all worked up again.

“Are you nervous?” Bucky asks quietly. “Excited? What’s going on, pal?”

“You swear you’re gonna be okay without me?” Steve asks seriously, finally meeting Bucky’s eyes.

“Course,” Bucky says, plastering on a smile. “Me and Clint are counting down the minutes until we can paint over the graffiti wall.”

“Bucky.”

And, well. The truth is that Bucky...is _fine_. So fine that he almost feels guilty about it. He’s going to miss having Steve around, but he thinks a little distance might be healthy for them, too. He’s been living in and out of Steve’s pockets for his whole life, and they’ve been so emotionally codependent. And Bucky never would have thought it was possible, but it seems like he’s finally grown strong enough to be okay without having Steve around all the time. It feels like it should be harder than this to say goodbye, but...it’s not.

“I’m gonna miss you, dumbass,” Bucky says, and he plants a kiss to Steve’s temple. “You always have a place here if you need it, but I don’t think you will. We’re all gonna be fine.”

“I know,” Steve says. He pulls Bucky into an awkward side-hug. “You’re really gonna cover up my wall?”

“We bought the paint the day after you told us you were leaving,” Bucky says, hiding his grin against Steve’s forehead. “Just waiting for you to get all your shit out of the way.”

“You’re such an asshole,” Steve says into Bucky’s shoulder with a sniffle, and Bucky pets Steve’s hair with his right hand and lets him cry quietly while Clint and Tony finish loading up the truck. 

*

Bucky wasn’t kidding about the graffiti wall. As soon as the moving truck clears the corner, the two of them are already racing back upstairs and stripping down to their boxers to paint over the monstrosity that ate their living room wall.

“You can still kinda see it,” Clint says with a squint, and he’s not wrong.

“It’s better,” Bucky says. “It’s not perfect, but it’s _better_.”

“Guess you’re right.” Clint shrugs and throws his brush back into the paint bucket. It lands perfectly, of course, but white paint sloshes all over the carpet. “Fuck.”

“We’ve been living together for an hour, and you’ve already fucked it up,” Bucky teases him, and Clint fixes him with the sweetest, fondest expression that Bucky is in no way prepared for.

“I like living together,” Clint says. There’s paint in his hair, down his neck, splattered over his chest, mixing in with his tattoos. There’s paint between his toes. He’s the most beautiful fucking thing Bucky has ever seen.

“We’re done, I think,” Bucky says, swallowing hard. “It looks good. Let’s shower all this fucking paint off.”

They turn the water as hot as it goes and jump under the spray together, kissing softly, sudsing each other up. Bucky washes all the paint out of Clint’s hair, and Clint scrubs all the places that Bucky can’t reach with his right arm. They run out of hot water before they finish up, but Bucky’s mostly clean by this point, so he ducks out from the shower and wraps himself up in a towel, leaving Clint to curse and finish cleaning himself under the rapidly cooling spray.

Bucky’s already in his sweatpants and tucked into bed by the time Clint pads back into their room, scrubbing at his wet hair with a faded old towel. He’s naked otherwise, and there is an intimacy to how unashamed he is to be so casually exposed. His arms are wiry and tattooed as they vigorously work at his hair, and his dick is soft against his thigh, and Bucky just watches him dry himself, halfheartedly swiping at his torso and his arms and his ankles with the already-wet towel. 

When he’s dry enough, Clint drops the towel on the ground, easily shrugging off Bucky’s judgmental raised eyebrow. They’re gonna get mildew, for fuck’s sake, but Bucky gets distracted by the long, lean lines of Clint’s body walking towards him, the gentle swagger of his hips as he approaches the bed and then crawls over to Bucky. His aids are already out, his ears are officially off for the night, and Bucky catches his wet tousled head with his hand and accepts his sweet kiss.

“Love you,” Clint murmurs, his body solid and naked and damp on top of Bucky’s. He turns his head to kiss Bucky’s palm. “Fuck, I love you.”

Bucky’s index finger traces an imaginary line on Clint’s cheek, joining his freckles in an arc. “Love you,” he whispers back, even though Clint won’t hear. And when Clint meets his eyes, he says it again, “_Love_ you,” soft but insistent, and Clint smiles crookedly.

“Are you tired?” Clint asks, and Bucky shakes his head. “Me neither. I’m not tired at all.”

“Do you wanna fool around?” Bucky asks, trying to keep his face neutral, trying not to betray how stupidly fucking turned on he is by Clint squirming around on top of him.

“Obviously,” Clint says, biting his lip and rolling his hips into Bucky’s. He ruts lazily against Bucky’s abs, his dick only starting to get hard. “This okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says dazedly. His cock stirs in his sweatpants, from the feel of Clint, the generous weight of him, the beautiful picture he makes with his shower-shiny skin all on display. “Go to town, sweetheart.” 

“I love this hand,” Clint mumbles, taking Bucky’s one hand in both of his, stroking his flushed, calloused skin with curious fingers.

“Glad it passes muster,” Bucky says breathlessly. “It’s not like I have a back-up.”

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Clint mutters, biting gently into the plush muscle group at the base of his thumb and then kissing the skin. “Love this goddamn hand. Can I hang onto it for a bit? Are you okay, like, balance-wise?”

“Can I re-situate myself first?” Bucky asks, and Clint nods, dropping his hand instantly. Bucky scooches back slightly, fluffing up the pillows to act as a bolster. Then he settles down into them, propped up at a comfortable angle, and he extends his hand to Clint, almost shyly.

Clint doesn’t seem to be in any hurry. He kisses Bucky’s hand deliberately, sensuously, touching his parted lips to each of Bucky’s fingertips and then dragging his lips purposefully down the length of each finger. He kisses the webspace between Bucky’s fingers. He kisses Bucky’s fingernails. He traces the tendons on the back of his hand with a careful, steady tongue. He sucks each of Bucky’s knuckles into his mouth and scrapes them lightly with his teeth. He pays so much heady, overwhelming attention to every last inch of Bucky’s hand, and Bucky feels like he’s going to float away from being so loved, so appreciated.

“Oh, my favorite spot,” Clint says quietly, almost to himself, as he presses his lips directly to the target tattoo on Bucky’s inner wrist.

“You got a bullseye,” Bucky says weakly as Clint laps delicately at his thin, tender skin.

“I always do,” Clint says. “Christ, I love this hand. I want to feel it everywhere.”

“Anywhere you want,” Bucky says, licking his lips.

It’s crazy how Bucky can feel so exposed when Clint’s the one completely naked, legs splayed, half-hard cock bobbing in front of him. But when Clint scrapes his teeth over the pad of Bucky’s fingertip, when he swirls his tongue over Bucky’s index finger with an obscene slurping noise, when his tongue piercing bumps into Bucky’s finger and Clint makes a small, satisfied sound, Bucky is so, so fucking turned-on, sizzling hot and _ready_. There’s something vulnerable and thrilling in the way he needs Clint so much. His hips thrust up on their own, his clothed cock frustrated beneath layers of cotton when all he wants is to be closer to Clint. He just wants to be close.

Clint guides Bucky’s hand to his chest, placing Bucky’s palm flat to his sternum and then using both of his own hands to hold him close. His back arches beautifully, impossibly, and Bucky itches to hold him, to _grab_ him with a phantom limb that never got to know how silky soft Clint’s skin can be when he’s right out of the shower. He wants to hold Clint and he _can’t_, but he digs in with his fingers, curls them up against Clint’s flesh, and Clint whimpers and ruts against him.

Clint’s eyes flutter shut, and he breathes, “Touch me, babe. Touch me where I make you touch me,” and Bucky swallows back a groan as Clint begins to move him. His hand skitters around Clint’s warm, wet chest like it’s a Ouija board, guided only by Clint’s coaxing fingertips, just barely directing him where to go. He palms Clint’s stomach, dips his thumb inside his belly-button and makes him laugh.

Clint guides his hand higher, and when he’s finally close enough, Bucky stretches out his pinky finger to just barely graze Clint’s hard nipple. Clint groans, guttural and desperate. He’s so fucking easy for having his nipples played with, and he tightens his grip on Bucky’s hand and jerks him closer. Bucky follows easily, catching Clint’s tender skin with his blunt nails, twisting the barbell between his thumb and index finger as Clint whines needily, recklessly fucking his cock against Bucky’s abs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Clint chants, and he lets go of Bucky with one hand so he can play with his other nipple, rolling it harshly between his fingers, toying with himself, and he’s so fucking hot and desperate that Bucky can barely breathe.

Bucky gives Clint’s barbell a tug, and the broken, hurt noise that he makes is _gorgeous_.

“Do it again,” Clint gasps. “Pinch it. Bite it. Fuck.”

His dick is so wet against Bucky’s stomach. He’s leaking everywhere, and he fucks right back into his precome, dragging it over Bucky’s flushed skin. He’s wanton, fucked-out, debauched, and they’ve barely even done anything yet. He crowds into Bucky’s space like he’s presenting himself, like he just wants Bucky to take a goddamn bite.

Bucky flicks his tongue over Clint’s nipple, just idly pushing the barbell back and forth, and Clint hiccups and leans even closer into him, threading one hand through Bucky’s hair and holding him in place against his chest. Bucky breathes in, smelling the heady scent of Clint, clean from the shower but beginning to sweat again, fresh and active and alive. He flattens out his tongue, licks long, slow strokes over Clint’s nipple, lavishing him, teasing him, and Clint whines, digging his fingers sharply into Bucky’s scalp when Bucky finally fits his teeth around Clint’s hard nipple and _tugs_.

“Fuck,” Clint breathes. “Fuck, keep doing that. Oh god, I’m gonna come.”

“Do it,” Bucky mutters. He sucks Clint’s barbell into his mouth and massages it with his tongue, and Clint whines, low and long. His fingers tighten in Bucky’s hair, and Bucky’s dick twitches as he revels in being the one to get Clint so out of control and overstimulated.

“Gonna come, gonna come,” Clint chants, fucking his dick against Bucky’s abs, and Bucky’s skin is so wet from him, the slide is so good, and Bucky hears the noise that it makes, the sloppy sound of skin on skin, and it’s barely any time at all before Clint is groaning and coming, spilling warm and wet over Bucky’s trembling stomach.

“Lovely,” Bucky murmurs against Clint’s skin, pressing a soft kiss to his abused nipple. Clint whimpers and flops onto his side, panting heavily and blinking up at the ceiling.

“I really like having my nipples played with,” Clint says unnecessarily, and Bucky chuckles.

“I’ve noticed,” he says. “You’re not shy about it.”

“Nope,” Clint agrees. He cranes his neck and nuzzles Bucky’s hip, rolling down the waistband of his sweatpants, flicking his tongue over Bucky’s hipbone and sucking lightly. Bucky’s hand finds its way to Clint’s head, and he thumbs at the shorn half of his scalp. The hairs there are so, so soft. “God, get naked already. Let me see your body.”

“Okay,” Bucky whispers, and he tentatively lifts his hips so Clint can push his sweatpants down his thighs, kicking them off and losing them somewhere in the sheets. Without the fabric between them anymore, Clint’s body is hot, his skin is so warm and luscious against Bucky’s legs. He just wants to be touched. He can’t wait for Clint to touch him already.

Clint stretches his shoulders with a groan, and then he makes his way higher up Bucky’s body, idly pressing a kiss to the base of his cock, which perks up from the attention. But Clint doesn’t stay there long, kissing a path over his pubic bone and up to his abs.

“I made a mess,” Clint says, his tone so conversational and matter-of-fact that Bucky is completely unprepared for the way he flattens out his tongue and slowly, languorously begins to lap up his own come from Bucky’s skin.

“What,” Bucky says stupidly, his brain short-circuiting, because holy fucking shit.

Clint doesn’t answer, just hums to himself. His tongue flicks out, and the piercing catches the light before Clint lowers his mouth to drag his tongue over Bucky’s skin, pushing his come around on Bucky’s stomach like he’s playing with his food. It’s filthy, the pleasure he seems to take from it, and Bucky holds as still as he can and watches and gets impossibly harder.

“All clean,” Clint says eventually, licking his lips with a self-satisfied smirk, and Bucky just blinks at him.

“Thanks.”

“My pleasure,” Clint says.

“Literally,” Bucky manages to say, and Clint laughs softly.

“You were so nice to me, baby,” he says earnestly. “Can I be nice to you now?”

Bucky nods, and he lets Clint push his thighs apart and settle down between them. His breath is warm and damp over Bucky’s exposed, twitching hole, and Bucky knows what’s going to happen even before it actually does, and the anticipation of it has his whole body vibrating. It feels like it takes fucking forever before Clint finally, finally touches the tip of tongue to Bucky’s anxious hole.

“Oh fuck,” Bucky croaks. He loves this, he _loves_ being rimmed, and Clint’s so fucking good at it, and he’s so turned on that he’s going to die.

He feels Clint’s hands on his ass, spreading him, exposing him at first to the cool air and then to the warm pressure of Clint’s tongue, flat and insistent against Bucky’s hole. He hears the noise it makes, the obscene slurping of Clint licking against him, eager and messy, and his thighs twitch restlessly as Clint drools on him. He feels his hole getting wet and sloppy from Clint’s spit, and he moans lowly when Clint wiggles the tip of his tongue inside, his piercing catching on Bucky’s rim, tugging at him, stretching him open.

He’s babbling, he has no idea what he’s saying but his mouth is moving. His hips rock towards Clint’s mouth, and he’s wanton and desperate as he tries to fuck himself deeper on Clint’s tongue. He cries out as he feels the piercing slip past his rim until it’s fully inside him, and he wriggles towards Clint shamelessly, wanting him so deep inside.

He almost wants to cry when he feels Clint withdrawing, and the piercing catches on his rim from the inside, and Clint has to wiggle his tongue devastatingly to get it back out, and Bucky is going to _lose it_ from so much internal stimulation.

“Get your hand down here and help me hold you open so I can jerk you off,” Clint says.

Bucky obeys without thinking, cupping his own ass with his right hand and holding himself open.

“Good,” Clint murmurs, and he pauses for a moment, just catching his breath and looking at Bucky. And Bucky’s so fucking open, so exposed, and his dick jumps excitedly. He loves this without understanding why.

Bucky’s practically vibrating with anticipation, ready and greedy for Clint’s tongue to breach him, so he’s caught completely off guard when Clint changes tactics and licks his dick, tonguing a lazy path along the underside of his cock. Clint traces along the vein, dragging his piercing purposefully over every last sensitive spot, and Bucky cries out as his dick twitches, blurting out precome. Clint laps him up slowly, deliberately, sucking on the shiny head of his dick and then pulling off with an audible pop.

“Holy shit,” Bucky whispers. “Oh my _god_.”

“You taste good,” Clint says, licking his lips, and without any further warning, he’s back between Bucky’s legs again, wiggling his tongue past Bucky’s tight rim and all the way in, as far as he can go, fucking into him with his tongue and licking him deep and wet and filthy. Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fist, his fingers digging deep and unforgiving into the flesh of his ass as he tries to hold himself open wider, as if Clint needs any more encouragement, as if Clint isn’t already licking him apart from the inside out, ravenous, feverish, like he loves this, like Bucky is his favorite meal and he’s fucking starving.

Bucky can’t handle it. Clint wraps a hand around his cock and begins to jerk him off, and he pushes his piercing back and forth through his tongue, dragging the barbell steadily along Bucky’s overstimulated insides, and Bucky feels hollowed out, like he’s just a vessel for Clint to lick into, like Clint’s tongue has claimed all of his nerve-endings and there’s nothing else of him left. He’s just pleasure and tension and Clint’s exquisite, perfect tongue.

“I’m gonna come,” Bucky says, and his voice sounds raspy and unfamiliar to his own ears, and he feels a few tears squeeze out past his closed eyelids but he doesn’t have a free hand to brush them away. They trickle down his face, and one makes it all the way to his mouth, and he licks the salt from his lower lip and shudders and shakes and cries as he comes.

Jesus, it feels like it lasts forever, and every time he’s about to calm down, Clint brushes over his spot again and makes him jump and curse. It’s too much, it should be too much, but it’s so good, it’s perfect to feel Clint’s tongue wriggling inside him as he works Bucky’s softening dick with his firm, competent grip. He’s inside-out and ruined, he’s so sensitive he wants to scream, but he doesn’t want Clint to stop.

But eventually, Clint pulls back, and Bucky’s hole spasms, clenching down around nothing, and he feels so loose and empty after having Clint inside him for so long. Bucky reluctantly lowers his leg and tries to calm his frantic breathing, swiping over his wet face with the side of his hand.

“You’re crying,” Clint says softly, propping up his chin on Bucky’s sweaty knee. “You okay, baby?” Bucky looks down at him, sees how filthy wet his face is, his mouth red and swollen and used, and he blinks through his tears and tries to catch his breath.

“I’m good,” Bucky says hoarsely. “Fuck, you’re perfect. That was unreal.”

“Just stay here,” Clint says, and he presses a gentle kiss to the inside of Bucky’s knee. “You wait right here for me, and I’ll get you all cleaned up and ready for bed.”

“Okay,” Bucky says weakly.

Clint kisses his knee again, then his ankle, and then he scoots backwards off the bed. He heads over towards the bathroom, scooping up the wet towel from earlier with a quick grin at Bucky, who rolls his eyes but can’t help but smile. He hears the sound of the sink running, the noises of Clint brushing his teeth, and then he comes back into the bedroom with a damp washcloth. He carefully cleans up Bucky’s skin, then tosses the cloth on the floor near the door and scoots under the covers.

“You did such a good job with getting the other towel,” Bucky grumbles, settling down into Clint’s comfy embrace.

“I’ll pick it up tomorrow,” Clint promises, pressing a kiss to Bucky’s temple. “You ready for sleep, babe?” Bucky nods slightly, and he smiles as Clint’s arms squeeze him.

“Love you,” Bucky says, like he’s always saying, like he keeps telling Clint over and over to the point where he can barely remember how _hard_ that used to be, to love someone, to let them know.

“Love you, too,” Clint says with a grin, easy as anything. And it’s not like Bucky doesn’t know. It isn’t like he even has to hear it to know that it’s true. But goddamn, does he ever love hearing it.

*

A few months later, Bucky’s in a sort of in-between, half-asleep and half-awake kind of place when he hears Clint crying. It’s too dark to see anything, but he’s draped over Clint like one more blanket, and he feels the unnatural tension of his body, hears the sound he makes each time he wetly breathes in and out.

It’s subtle at first, just some sniffles and weak coughs, and if Bucky didn’t know better, he might think that Clint was just getting sick.

But he does know better, and he knows the set of Clint’s shoulders, the way he’s holding himself so stiffly, like he’s trying to keep all his emotions inside. He knows the soft hiccuping sound that Clint makes when he’s trying to be quiet. He can feel a tremble in Clint’s ribcage.

“Sweetheart,” Bucky says softly, and he feels Clint tense up suddenly.

“I can’t hear you,” Clint says, swallowing around his tears, “but I can tell you’re awake.”

Bucky kisses the back of Clint’s neck, hot and sticky with sweat, and he doesn’t say anything, and he waits.

“Go back to sleep,” Clint says gruffly.

Bucky doesn’t want to pry, doesn’t want Clint to feel pressured to talk about anything he’s not ready to talk about. But also, Clint doesn’t get to cry in their bed and then pretend to be okay. He doesn’t have to tell Bucky what’s going on, not all of it, but he’s going to be comforted whether he likes it or not.

Bucky places his palm against Clint’s side. Jesus, he’s so thin that Bucky feels the bumps of his ribs as he gently strokes Clint’s flushed skin. He’s always thin, he’s lanky and wiry and compact, always, but he’s bonier than Bucky’s used to. He doesn’t know how he didn’t notice before.

“Just a bad dream,” Clint mumbles, and that doesn’t feel like all of it, not really. But Bucky kisses the back of his neck again, then the top of his shoulder, and he finds Clint’s right hand in the dark with his own and gives it a squeeze.

“Love you,” Bucky says, because he does, and he means it, and he’s going to say it even if Clint can’t hear him right now.

Clint squeezes Bucky’s hand back, tentative at first, then more firmly.

“My ears are getting worse,” he says after a few minutes, and Bucky holds his breath, because _shit_. “I’ve been noticing more bad days over the last month or so, but today was...bad. Today was real bad, Bucky.”

Clint lets go of Bucky’s hand to swipe at his face as he softly begins to cry again, and Bucky wraps his arm protectively across Clint’s chest, kissing the back of his head, tenderly touching his lips to Clint’s matted hair. His heart is beating so fast that he’s afraid Clint will notice.

“I couldn’t...not _anything_,” Clint says eventually. “I couldn’t hear anything today, not even with the aids, and I just...pretended, I guess. Fuck. I don’t know why I did that. I’m sorry.”

This is so much information at once, and Bucky doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what to _do_. He doesn’t know what Clint needs or if he’s going to be okay.

“I know you’re probably thinking I should go to the doctor,” Clint continues, and Bucky wasn’t thinking that at _all_, he’s such a fucking dumbass, he doesn’t know how to process or how to help or anything. “I have an appointment next week. I was hoping you’d come, too, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course I don’t mind,” Bucky says, and then he has to clear his throat, and why is he even talking, Clint can’t fucking hear him anyway, and fucking _great_, now he’s crying, too.

“Okay, fuck,” Clint says, rolling halfway over Bucky so he can stretch one gangly arm out and switch on the bedside lamp. The bulb hums and flickers, and it only affords a scant glow to the room, but it’s enough.

It’s enough for Bucky to see Clint’s face, the tear tracks, the resolved jut of his chin, the watery fear in his eyes.

And it’s enough for Clint to read Bucky’s lips when he shakily says, “I’m so sorry, darling.”

Clint tries to smile at him, and Bucky tries to smile back.

“I’m scared,” Clint whispers. “I’m really scared that one of these days, I’m gonna wake up, and it’s gonna be gone forever, and I’m never gonna hear your voice again.”

Bucky shakes his head violently, because he refuses, he fucking refuses for that to be a possibility. Clint cups Bucky’s cheek in his hand, quieting his jerky movements, smoothing his thumb over Bucky’s stubbled cheekbone. Bucky brings his own hand up to Clint’s face, and they just hold each other, blinking their tears onto each other’s fingers as they try to catch their breath.

“Are you gonna be done with me when I can’t hear you anymore?” Clint asks.

“I will never be done with you,” Bucky says, squeezing his eyes shut in a vain attempt to hold back the hot tears streaming down his cheeks. “Not ever.”

“What are we gonna do?” Clint asks quietly, and Bucky opens his eyes again. “I’m not _that_ good at lip reading. I’m okay, but that can’t be the only way I get to talk with you. I’ll lose my mind. And you’re not that good at ASL.” Clint bites his lip and looks repentant. “Sorry, babe, but you’re just not.”

“I know,” Bucky says. He’s tried, but there’s too many fucking two-handed signs, and he gets frustrated, and he never practices as much as he should. He will, for Clint, if he has to. But he doesn’t think he’s ever going to be good enough.

“How are we still going to be together if you can’t talk to me?” Clint asks seriously.

It’s not a hysterical, self-pitying question, the way he asks it. It’s a practical barrier that they have to figure out a way around.

“I don’t know yet,” Bucky says eventually. “But I’ve only had, like...ten minutes to think about it.” Clint laughs wetly, and Bucky tries to smile. “I’ll figure something out. I promise. We’ll figure it out. I’m not losing you over this.”

“Okay,” Clint says. “Fuck, do you want to hear something really stupid and petty?”

“Yes.”

“I kind of,” Clint swallows hard and looks at Bucky’s chin, pointedly not meeting his eyes. “It’s so dumb. But part of me always thought maybe I’d be a musician someday. You know, me and every other unemployed dumbass in Brooklyn, Jesus. But I just kind of...never gave up on that secret dream, I guess. And I know it was probably never going to happen, but now it’s definitely never going to happen.”

“Why not?” Bucky says fiercely, and he tips Clint’s chin up until their eyes meet again. “Between the two of us, we have two good ears and three good arms. That’s more than enough for a musician.”

“You don’t like music anymore,” Clint says slowly. “You haven’t drummed in years.”

“I like you,” Bucky says simply. He can’t unpack the rest of it right now, he just fucking can’t go there in his mind. But if Clint needs something, Bucky is going to be goddamn sure that he gets it, somehow.

“I like you, too,” Clint says, and he smiles Bucky’s favorite crooked smile.

“Can you follow what I’m saying?” Bucky asks slowly. “It’s important. I want you to make sure you get it.”

“I got it,” Clint says softly. “What do you want to tell me?”

“You know….” Fuck, Clint’s focused so intently on his mouth, and it feels so hard to say this face to face. Bucky wishes for a moment that he could turn the lights out, whisper this into Clint’s skin in the dark. But he can’t. He has to be stronger than that, for Clint. “You know I’m not good at letting anyone help me.”

“I know,” Clint murmurs. “It’s hard for you.”

“It’s fucking unbearable for me,” Bucky agrees. “And I’ve always been like that. I always needed to take care of myself and take care of everyone else around me. And then I lost my fucking arm and I..._couldn’t_. I couldn’t do it alone, I needed people, all the time, and I fucking hated it.”

Clint nods, a small furrow between his brows as he intently focuses on Bucky’s mouth and the shape of his words.

“But you….” Bucky swallows hard, and he strokes his thumb along Clint’s jaw. “What is it about you, sweetheart? Why do you make it so easy for me to let you in?”

Clint meets his gaze with his eyes full of questions, and Bucky squeezes his own eyes shut and blindly finds his mouth, pressing searching, insistent kisses to Clint’s chapped lips. Clint kisses him back, tentative and soothing, and the itch under Bucky’s skin starts to settle.

They’re both breathing heavy when they pull back, and Clint keeps licking his own lips, quietly waiting for Bucky to continue.

“I hate asking for help,” Bucky says eventually. “I hate _needing_ help. But I need you. I fucking need you, Clint, and you made it easy for me to need you.”

“I need you, too,” Clint says hoarsely. “You have to know that.”

“I do,” Bucky says. “And I...I swear, Clint, I’m gonna make it real, real easy for you to need me. I promise I’m going to be here for you, and you won’t even have to ask for it.”

“I love you,” Clint says with a sniffle, and Bucky’s fingers tremble against his jawbone. “Shit, I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I love you so much.”

“Promise me you’ll always sing to me,” Bucky says suddenly. “Even if you can’t hear yourself doing it. Promise me you always will.”

“I promise,” Clint says. “Can’t promise it’s going to sound any good.”

“It always does,” Bucky says. He tilts his face towards Clint and gives him one soft, chaste kiss. “You’re my favorite sound, always.”

“Thank you,” Clint says seriously. “I never…. I didn’t think I’d get this. No one ever loved me like this before.”

“I’m always going to love you like this,” Bucky says. “Let’s get some sleep, okay?”

Clint nods, reaching over Bucky to turn out the light. He settles down into Bucky’s embrace, the tension slowly leaching out of him. Bucky wraps his arm tight around Clint and kisses the back of his shoulder again, and Clint drowsily hums Hüsker Dü songs until they both fall asleep.

*

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Clint asks quietly as they both stare at the drumkit in the middle of the den.

And...no. Bucky is definitely not sure that he’s ready for this. He doesn’t think he’ll ever be sure that he’s ready for _anything_, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t going to try it anyway. He wasn’t sure he was ready to have a job or to have a boyfriend, but he did those things anyway.

And Clint _needs_ him, and so it doesn’t really matter what Bucky is or isn’t ready for.

“Let’s do it,” Bucky says, and Clint nods.

And Bucky sits down on the milkcrate in front of the kit, and he picks up a drumstick for the first time in four years. He remembers this, he thinks. Some part of this feels familiar, but distant. It’s almost like how he still feels his left arm sometimes. It doesn’t belong there anymore, it’s incongruent with who he is now, but he still has memories to remind him of who he used to be.

“Clint,” Bucky says, and his heart starts beating faster.

“I’ve got you,” Clint says, and he wraps both of his arms around Bucky from behind. He kisses the side of Bucky’s neck and then leaves his mouth there, breathing his sweet, warm breath onto Bucky’s skin. And Bucky’s heart gallops and skitters, and he feels himself starting to sweat, and he tightens his grip on the drumstick and just fucking makes himself sit there. For Clint. It’s for _Clint_. He can do this.

Not the drumming. He can’t do that yet. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready for that. But he can sit here and hold this stick and look at this instrument and let Clint hold him, whispering _I love you, I love you, I love you_ into his sweaty neck until his heartbeat finally slows.

Maybe tomorrow he’ll be ready for something more.

*

The rehearsal dinner for Tony and Steve’s wedding is a smaller affair than Bucky had expected. The two-year engagement has been an endless onslaught of Steve and Tony arguing over every last stupid, petty detail, and Bucky is beyond ready for it to be over.

Bucky loves Steve. He genuinely, truly does. But listening to Steve and Tony debate for an hour about whether a man wearing a dress in a gay wedding makes the whole affair heteronormative is pushing the bounds of friendship to a place that Bucky never agreed to go. For a while there, Bucky was pretty sure his best man’s toast was just going to be _Thanks for taking him off my hands, Tony, because I don’t want him anymore_.

And after all the arguing and debating and threatening and planning and second-guessing, the shockingly-small wedding party is at Tony and Steve’s place for a rooftop cookout and microbrew tasting the night before the big day. It’s breezy and beautiful outside, and Clint is eating something from an alarmingly large skewer with one hand, and his other hand is tucked in Bucky’s back pocket, and Bucky is _happy_.

“What happened to your hair?” Tony asks Clint, squinting at his head. “Didn’t you used to be cool? You look very normal now. I can’t even see your scalp.”

Clint’s been growing out his hair gradually, and now it’s just a spiky sort of fauxhawk that looks really good on him. He looks _good_. He looks handsome and healthy and happy, and Bucky fucking loves him with a relentlessness he can’t put into words.

“I’m still cool,” Clint says with a grin. “It’s just getting too cold to have my whole head on display. That’s the summer hawk. I’m growing in a good winter hawk.”

“I think I like it,” Tony says. “You look like more of an adult and less of a….”

“Queer runaway circus freak criminal?” Clint asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I was going to say ‘vagrant,’” Tony says. “You still look like a queer runaway circus freak criminal.”

“Good,” Clint says, gesturing with his skewer. “I have a brand to maintain.”

Bucky leans subtly into Clint’s body, just reminding him that he’s here, and Clint smiles fondly down at him.

_Okay?_ Clint signs with a quirk of his eyebrow, his skewer slicing dangerously through the air between them. He takes the empty beer bottle from Bucky’s hand, freeing him up to respond.

_I’m fine_, Bucky reassures him. _You okay?_

_Perfect_, Clint answers, using a facial gesture now that his own hands are full.

Over the last year or so, they’ve developed their own ways of communicating, borrowing from ASL, intuitive gestures, and other kinemes they’ve invented along the way. Clint doesn’t reliably hear well enough to follow audible words anymore, but he’s gotten better with lip-reading, and Bucky has learned how to use his entire body to communicate with him.

“You two and your pidgin signs,” Tony says, looking at them curiously. “How’d you invent a whole language anyway? I’ve never invented a whole language. Well, technically I’ve invented three programming languages, but--”

“Did you just call me a _pigeon_?” Clint asks, outraged. “I’m not a fucking pigeon, what the fuck, Tony?”

“I didn’t--”

“I’m an _eagle_,” Clint rants, gesturing with his empty bottle. “I’m a goddamn _hawk_. Caw caw, motherfucker.”

Tony stares at him blankly. “I wasn’t saying _pigeon_, I was…. You know what, it’s not even worth it. Caw caw, hawk guy.”

“I’m a hawk,” Clint grumbles.

Bucky leans in to kiss his nose, small kisses at first, then bigger, sloppier nose kisses until Clint is smiling in spite of himself.

“You’re a hawk,” Bucky agrees.

“And you’re empty,” Clint says, nodding at the glass bottle leaking condensation all over his hand. “You want me to get you another?”

“I’ve got it,” Bucky says. He pushes up slightly onto his toes and brushes his lips over Clint’s. Clint palms his ass and gives him a nice squeeze before pulling his hand out of Bucky’s pocket. “Be right back, babe.”

“Miss you,” Clint sing-songs, doing something frankly obscene with his skewer.

Bucky’s got a nice buzz going, and his stomach is full of good food, and he’s surrounded by friends. It’s a beautiful autumn day in the city. He’s happy that he’s here to see it. He wanders over to the extensive array of coolers set out on the west side of the building, taking a minute to appreciate the sunset as he digs through the ice in search of something a little less hoppy.

“Do you smoke?”

Bucky startles at the question, not realizing that Tony had followed him over.

“No, I don’t smoke,” Bucky says. Tony nods, wringing his hands absently. “Why, do you smoke?”

“No,” Tony says softly, looking out over the city. “I do not.”

“Did you follow me over here just to ask me that?”

“I didn’t follow you,” Tony says with a frown. “I needed a new beer, and you didn’t offer to get one for anyone else before you left.”

“Fuck you, I have one hand,” Bucky says mildly. “I don’t make group beer runs.”

“Fair point,” Tony says. He nods at the bottle Bucky’s holding. “You want me to open that for you?”

“Obviously.”

Tony produces a small silver doohickey from his pocket, about the size and shape of a lighter. He pushes a button, and the machine whirrs gently as a red light comes on and two arms extend from the device to remove the cap on Bucky’s beer bottle.

“Did you invent a bottle-opening robot?” Bucky asks, a little bit in awe in spite of himself. It’s fucking stupid, but the robot is _cute_.

“Not intentionally,” Tony says. “She was supposed to do something else, but she wasn’t any good at it. She’s good at this, though, so I keep her around. She likes feeling useful.” Tony strokes along one of the robot’s silvery ridges, and she lets out a small noise that sounds like a purr before folding up and turning off again.

“You like inventing stuff?” Bucky asks, trying to sound casual. He didn’t intentionally come out here tonight looking to ask Tony for a favor, but he doesn’t mind shamelessly seizing the opportunity.

“Sure do, Buckaroo,” Tony says, handing over the open bottle to Bucky. “It’s a curse to be this great at something I enjoy that also incidentally helps millions of people.”

“Why cure cancer when you could invent a robot with the same functionality as a kitchen counter?” Bucky says with a quirk of his lips before remembering that he’s asking for a favor and should maybe be nicer. “Are you good with computers and programming and websites and all of that?”

“Well,” Tony says consideringly, “I run a tech company, and I have a Ph.D. in computers and programming and websites and all of that, so yeah, I’m pretty okay. You fishing for something?”

“I had an idea for something,” Bucky says, “but I don’t know how to...make it. Or if it’s even possible.”

“I invented time travel for fun during my bachelor party,” Tony says with a shrug. “Whatever it is, I bet I can handle it.”

Bucky was in attendance at Tony and Steve’s joint bachelor party, and Tony very definitely _did not_ invent time travel, but Bucky’s actual request is a little simpler, probably.

“I don’t know what I need exactly,” he says. “An app, maybe? Or a program? A...software? It’s for Clint. For music.”

“Yeah, I heard the two of you started playing together,” Tony says. “What, do you want to start drumming again?” His eyes light up. “Can I build you a robot arm that drums?”

“_No_,” Bucky says with a shudder. “I don’t do that anymore. This is more of a behind the scenes thing. Mixing. Production.”

“I’m all ears,” Tony says. “Shit, is that insensitive? Anyway, continue.”

“Clint’s range of hearing is...narrowing,” Bucky says carefully. “And I’ve been experimenting with remixing existing songs and albums to be more condensed, I guess, so the important parts still fit within his best range. It’s a little artsy, but it’s mostly very mathy. And if it’s mathy, a computer could probably do it automatically, right?”

Tony cocks his head. “Pitch it to me again, but sound more sure of yourself, and ask for something directly.”

“I want to build a website that will test someone’s hearing range and then create sound mixes of any digital music files they upload, customized to their personal optimal frequencies.”

“Why?” Tony asks. “Doesn’t sound very profitable. And you’re probably gonna run into some copyright issues. The RIAA loves a good fight.”

“Because it would be easy and small for you,” Bucky says, “but it would be huge and life-changing for other people. Music is important. People need it.”

“Huh.” Tony nods to himself, his brow furrowed. “Okay, yeah, cool. I’m gonna hire you.”

“I already work for you,” Bucky says, confused. “In the mailroom.”

“In the…? C’mon, that’s not even a job, that’s a thing I made up to help Steve’s friends get health insurance. It’s 2019, and I run a cutting edge tech company. I have robots to open my beers. Do you think I need a _mailroom_?”

“I don’t understand,” Bucky says slowly. He’s been going to work. For years. It’s gotten him out of the apartment and given him a purpose and allowed him to be autonomous. Working has been important to him.

“Listen, no,” Tony says. “Thank you for your service. To the country and to, you know, the mailroom. But I need you for something that actually matters now. Steve’s on my ass to hire a bunch of injured vets, and I think there are going to be some challenges in store for all of us, and that is...not my world. And I love that idiot, you know I do, but I’m still not convinced he isn’t trying to infiltrate my company so he can burn it down in the name of workers revolution, so I can’t give him any actual power.”

“What are you saying?”

“What am I saying? That’s valid, okay. I’m saying that I want you to be...a liaison, perhaps. An accessibility guru to teach all my new handicapable employees the ways of the mailroom, and maybe to teach my HR staff how to be tactful and understanding so that we don’t all end up with an ADA lawsuit.”

“I’m not qualified to do that,” Bucky says with a frown. “What makes you think I’m qualified to do that?”

“You’re missing an arm, so you’re kind of my target demographic here. And I hate that I’m actually saying this out loud, but I kind of like you in spite of myself?” Tony shrugs. “And you’re not afraid to tell me to fuck off, and that’s something you can’t teach. Hey, I’ll hire Clint, too. You both have college degrees, right?”

“I don’t think Clint finished high school,” Bucky says. “I think he has his GED?”

“Whatever,” Tony says, shaking his head. “I’ll hire him as a consultant, if he wants. I like your chutzpah, and I like that you both understand firsthand what you’re talking about. Shit, I just said _firsthand_. I wasn’t making fun of your hand. I keep doing this. Anyway, think about it. I’ll pay you a lot. I know it sounds like I’m making all this up on the spot, and I kind of am, but this is a genius idea, and I’m a genius, and we’re gonna build something great.”

“Are you going to help me make my website?”

“Yeah, totally. I have to get married tomorrow, but I should have a mock-up by…Wednesday?”

“Okay.”

“Married,” Tony muses. “Eat, drink, and be married.” His mouth opens like he’s about to say something else, but then he closes it as something catches his eye and makes him smile a little. Bucky follows his line of sight.

On the other side of the rooftop, Steve and Sam have their arms around each other, and they’re drunkenly caterwauling something that Bucky can’t quite make out from this distance. Steve is flushed and happy, laughing the infectious way he does with his head thrown all the way back. Even his stupid face tattoo looks okay, now that it’s all healed and the edges were touched up by a professional artist. Bucky loves him so much, that big dopey idiot.

And he’s so glad that Steve found someone to look at him the fond, sappy way that Tony is looking at him right now.

“Be good to him,” Bucky says gently. “I fucking swear I will rip you to pieces with my teeth if you ever hurt him.”

“If I ever hurt him,” Tony says distractedly, “I’d let you. Go on, go tell your boyfriend you got a big fancy promotion.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, even though he’s still not entirely sure what just happened and what he’s agreeing to.

“No, thank _you_,” Tony says, extending his right hand for Bucky to shake. Bucky looks from Tony’s hand to his own, which is holding a beer bottle, and Tony groans. “Yeah, I promise I’m gonna stop doing that.”

“I guess it’s my job to make sure that you do,” Bucky says with a small smile. He raises his bottle to Tony, and then he walks back to the group, back to Clint.

“Missed you,” Clint murmurs, hooking a finger into Bucky’s belt-loop and tugging him closer. “Everyone else here is so boring and not very sexy to look at.”

“That’s not true,” Bucky says. He rests his beer bottle on the ledge, quickly signing, _Nat’s sexy. Sam’s sexy_.

“Shut up,” Clint grouses.

_You’re sexy_.

“I am sexy,” Clint says with a goofy smile.

_And drunk_.

“Nope,” Clint protests, shaking his head. “I’m just a little tipsy. I’m still sober enough to consent to sexual shenanigans.”

“_Genuinely_ shut the fuck up,” Nat says in disgust, signing her words at the same time she speaks them. “I thought Steve and Tony were going to be the grossest couple here tonight, but you’re both revolting.”

Clint angles himself to face her, and their hands are a flurry as they argue about who’s gross and who’s annoying and who needs to shut the fuck up and stop being jealous that other people are getting laid. Bucky picks up his beer bottle and soaks it all in.

Friends. Commitment. Healing. It’s a weird fucking world, and he’s here, right in the middle of it. He drinks his beer and watches the sun set, and he’s happy.

*

_Five years later_

“Five more minutes,” Clint murmurs in between long, deep kisses. “Just gimme five more minutes and then I’ll get up.”

He’s a fucking _liar_, and they both know it, but Bucky’s dick is happy to be rutting against Clint’s, and Clint is so sweet and pliant in the morning.

Yeah, they’re probably going to be late for work. Again. But to argue with Clint, Bucky would have to pull away from him and sign his disapproval. Bucky would have to stop kissing him, and Bucky does _not_ want to stop kissing him.

In the end, by the time they both get off and take a half-assed shower, pulling themselves together and making it to Manhattan in record time, they’re only about twenty minutes late as they walk into Stark Tower, Clint’s right arm slung low around Bucky’s waist, their hips brushing with each step.

“You’re late,” Tony says cooly without looking up, punctuating his disapproval with a terse sign for Clint’s benefit.

“Slept through my alarm,” Clint says breezily with a smile. “Didn’t hear it go off.”

“You can’t keep using that excuse,” Tony says as they all walk to the elevators together.

“Can’t fire me for being deaf,” Clint says with a shrug. “I checked with the head of your Accessibility Department and everything.”

It’s not technically true, not quite the way he’s said it. And Bucky would know, since he _is_ the head of the Accessibility Department. But they both know Tony isn’t going to fire either of them any time soon.

The doors open, and they all get inside. The interior elevator walls are actually computer screens, and the display changes every fifteen seconds, crossfading from one interactive graffiti wall to the next. Bucky draws a small smiley face with his index finger, and he watches until it pixelates and vanishes.

“Stay late tonight,” Tony says, getting off on the fourteenth floor. “You owe me twenty minutes.”

“Sure thing,” Clint says, even as he makes a gesture that tells Bucky _not a chance_.

“Twenty minutes!” Tony says again as the elevator doors shut and they both ignore him.

As soon as the doors are closed, Clint backs him into a corner and wraps him up in a confusing and comfortable tangle of limbs.

“We are not staying late tonight,” Clint informs him. “And I’m gonna suck your dick on his desk when he goes out for lunch.”

“I have to write a paper during lunch,” Bucky protests weakly as Clint kisses the side of his neck. He’s only three credits away from finishing his Master of Disability Studies, and he’s anxious to be done already.

Maybe he can write the paper and get his dick sucked at the same time.

Bucky nudges Clint’s shoulder when the doors open for his floor, and Clint pulls away with a smirk.

“Tony’s office at noon,” he says, pointing at Bucky. “I’ll bring my mouth, you bring your dick.”

_Go to work already_, Bucky says with a grin.

He’s still smiling when he gets to his office on the twenty-sixth floor.

“What are you so happy about?” his personal assistant Shuri asks, glancing up from her screen. Shuri’s way too smart to be anyone’s assistant, and he’s definitely sure she’s infiltrating Tony’s company for her own purposes. But he likes having her around, so he doesn’t dig too deeply into it.

“No reason,” Bucky says, accepting a cup of coffee from her. “Do I need a reason?”

“Tony already messaged me that I’m supposed to try to make you stay twenty minutes late today,” she says, returning to her typing. “I accidentally deleted it without opening it, so feel free to live your best life.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” he says, flashing her a grin and then taking a long sip of his coffee. “Hey, can you cancel whatever I’m doing for lunch and schedule me an hour with Clint instead?”

“Of course,” she says, hitting a few keys. “I’ll just tell Steve to get fucked.”

“Don’t tell him that,” Bucky says quickly. “I mean...tell him that, but nicely. And cancel my lunches for the rest of the week and schedule me with Steve.”

“Sure thing, boss,” she says. He walks past her, and the glass doors to his office automatically part. “Oh, that reporter sent over a mock-up of the article. I put it on your desk. It looks good. I didn’t know you were in a band.”

He narrows his eyes at her thoughtfully. “Yes, you did,” he says finally. There’s no way she hasn’t done a full background check on him by this point. Kids and their technology. She probably knows his social security number and his PIN. He’ll definitely be working for her by the end of the decade.

“Fine, I did,” she says with a toothy smile. Her computer makes a pinging noise. “Oh, Clint just accepted your booty call.”

“Do some work,” he says, rolling his eyes and walking into his office. The doors close quietly behind him.

There’s a tablet sitting on his desk. Stark Tech has been completely paperless for almost a decade now, aside from the mysterious mailroom that continues to employ dozens of people looking for a second chance to get back on their feet. The screen turns on to reveal the article title: “A Hawk For All Seasons.”

It’s a meandering, lovely sort of essay, describing the work he and Clint have done to make technology and music more accessible through official means and random acts of anarchy. There’s a long middle section that talks about their occasional band with the seasonal, ever-changing name (they’re Springhawk right now, but they’ll be Summerhawk again in a few weeks). And there are some great pictures of Bucky and Clint throughout the years.

There’s a selfie of the two of them and Steve and Lucky, all piled onto the couch Clint was sleeping on when he first moved into their apartment, before the two of them were even anything at all.

There’s a Polaroid from the first gig they ever played. Clint is singing and playing guitar, and Bucky is off to the side of the stage surrounded by a mixing board and a dozen looping pedals, live-mixing Clint’s sound, bringing out the best in him in real-time. Bucky is wearing Clint’s purple bullseye hoodie and a rapturous look on his face.

There’s a picture of them at SXSW. Bucky agreed to let Tony showcase the app as long as he also secured Clint a music showcase, and they performed as Winterhawk for only the second time ever (seasonal depression wasn’t usually working in their favor in the winter months). Bucky ended up with more investors than he knew what to do with, and Clint got to sing in front of the largest crowd he’d ever seen. His hearing was almost entirely gone by that point, but he still had enough left to hear the sound of that crowd cheering, and Bucky will cherish his memory of the look on Clint’s face for the rest of his life.

And there’s a picture from their small rooftop wedding last year. Clint’s sliding a ring onto Bucky’s finger as he presses a kiss to his fading bullseye tattoo, and his eyes are closed. The picture is far away and blurry, but Bucky remembers it. He remembers the tears at the corners of Clint’s eyes, he remembers the gentle warmth of his lips on his wrist, and he remembers feeling like everything in his life had finally settled into place. Like he was finally exactly where he was supposed to be.

God, he’s so lucky.

They both are.

_I can’t wait until lunch_, Bucky messages to Clint. _I miss you too much. Come save me_.

_I’m bored as shit_, Clint sends back. _You’ll be saving me, too. Seeya in five_.

And Bucky settles down in his chair to wait for Clint, and he knows it will be barely any time at all before he’s bursting through that door, beautiful and alive and animated and perfect, his best guy who saves him every time, right on schedule.

His perfect bullseye.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr post](https://1000-directions.tumblr.com/post/186753140364/kangofu-cb-see-a-little-light-for-the)


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